“So you have a locked-garden mystery,” Melody mused.
“I don’t see anyone getting in that gate,” Gemma agreed.
“It all sounds quite creepy, with the white dress, and the candle wax in the grass. Some kind of ritual gone wrong, do you think?”
Gemma frowned. “From what I’ve learned about Reagan Keating so far, I can’t imagine her being involved in anything like that. And it wouldn’t explain her missing phone.”
“Did she have a computer?”
“There was a photo printer on her desk, but no desktop or laptop. If she had either, it’s missing, too. We’ll find out tomorrow.”
Melody looked suddenly stricken, as if realizing that the “we” didn’t include her. “Good luck, then,” she said, glancing at her watch, then giving Gemma a bright smile and gulping what must now be stone-cold tea. “But I’ve got to run—”
“Boatman is obviously short-staffed,” broke in Gemma. “If there’s any way I can swing getting you a temporary assignment—”
But Melody was already shaking her head. “You didn’t see the guv’nor’s face today. She was livid. I think I’d like to keep my job. And besides, I’m in charge in your stead.” This time her smile seemed more genuine.
“Stay for dinner,” Gemma offered as Melody stood, not wanting her to go.
Melody hesitated for just a moment, then made a little rueful face and said, “Can’t. Meeting someone. But thanks.”
“A date? I thought Andy was in—where, Germany?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Melody’s shrug seemed deliberately offhand. “And, no, it’s not a date. Unless you count meeting Doug at the Jolly Gardeners for a drink. Which I certainly do not.”
After Melody left, Gemma had brought the children in from the garden, settling them in the dining room with a game of Jenga and hoping to hold off the pre-dinner demands for telly or video games. The game of stacking tiles was too hard for Charlotte, so Gemma anticipated a meltdown any moment. And she’d already had to scoop the kittens off the table when they tried to bat at the tiles.
Rose, the tortoiseshell and white kitten, came into the kitchen as if summoned by the thought, wrapping herself around Gemma’s ankles. She was an affectionate little thing, not as much of a troublemaker as her brother Jack, and Gemma was developing a decided preference. Stooping, she picked the kitten up for a cuddle. “Girls,” she murmured, stroking the soft little head, “should stick together, yeah? But don’t say I said so.” Rose had black patches over her eyes and one was larger than the other, giving her a piratical look. In between the black patches her fur was ginger, and then white around her very pink nose. Kit had given Gemma more than one lecture on the genetics of cat coloration, but she had to admit it had gone in one ear and out the other. All she remembered was that only females were tortoiseshell.
The kitten apparently decided she was more interested in prawns than adoration and squirmed towards the work top. “No, you don’t,” Gemma told her firmly and set her down. She’d just begun chopping shallots when there was a crash of Jenga tiles from the dining room and the rising sound of a squabble. It was a relief when the doorbell rang.
“Pick those up,” she admonished the children as she crossed the hall. She was already preparing to say, “Changed your mind, then?” to Melody as she opened the door.
But it wasn’t Melody, it was MacKenzie Williams, with Oliver, who was holding tightly to his mother’s hand and leaning his curly head against her leg. “Gemma,” said MacKenzie, “I’m so sorry to barge in again like this. But I needed to talk to you.”
Oliver tugged on MacKenzie’s hand. “Mummy, I want to go in.”
“Not unless you’re invited, darling,” MacKenzie admonished.
“Of course he is.” Gemma gave Oliver a pat. “Go on, then. Charlotte and Toby are playing a game in the dining room. The grown-ups can talk in the kitchen,” she added quietly to MacKenzie.
“We can’t stay long,” MacKenzie murmured as Oliver ran inside. “I told Bill we were going to the shops for something I forgot.”
As her friend followed her into the kitchen, Gemma saw that there were dark hollows under her eyes, and that the mass of her dark hair was drawn back haphazardly with a clip, as if she hadn’t bothered to brush it.
“Could I have one of those?” MacKenzie asked when she spied Gemma’s glass of wine.
“Of course.” Gemma filled a glass for MacKenzie, glad she’d had a full bottle on hand. Joining MacKenzie at the kitchen table, she raised her own topped-up glass and tapped it to MacKenzie’s. “Cheers.”
MacKenzie took an obligatory sip but then set her glass on the table and leaned forward. Her shoulders looked tight with tension. “Listen, Gemma. I didn’t mean to drop you in the shit today. Bill told me he called your boss this morning and asked that you be included in the investigation into Reagan’s death. He can be a bit overbearing when he gets the bit between his teeth, and he was very fond of Reagan. But he had no right to demand that you be put on the case. Or to cause any awkwardness for you at work.”
From what Melody had told Gemma about Detective Superintendent Krueger’s mood that morning, Gemma suspected it would be more than awkwardness. But she said, “Don’t worry about that, it’s not your—”
MacKenzie waved a hand to stop her. “No, really, hear me out. I feel like I presumed on our friendship. I had no idea, when I asked you to go with me yesterday, that it would be so . . . so complicated. And I’m sure I overreacted, that Reagan was just ill, or maybe took too much of something she didn’t realize would hurt her. And now I feel a complete fool—”
“MacKenzie,” Gemma said softly, aware of the little voices—and little ears—across the hall. “I’m sorry. But you weren’t wrong. The pathologist did the postmortem this morning. I’m afraid Reagan was murdered.”
MacKenzie stared at her, gaping, then whispered, “Oh, Christ.” She touched her glass with a trembling hand but didn’t pick it up. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. It will take time for the labs to come back, but the postmortem results were pretty conclusive. We have enough to go on with.”
“But— How?” MacKenzie whispered.
Gemma hesitated. The information would come out soon enough. She’d like to keep the advantage of that knowledge in interviews for as long as possible, but she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t tell MacKenzie. “Please don’t share this with anyone except Bill,” she cautioned. “Reagan was suffocated.”
“Suffocated?” MacKenzie sat back, blinking, her white skin like parchment against her black hair. “Oh, my God. Why . . . Why would someone do that to her? Was she—” She didn’t seem able to finish the thought.
“No, no.” Gemma grasped her friend’s hand. “Reagan wasn’t sexually assaulted.” MacKenzie was so pale now Gemma was afraid she might faint. “Are you all right, MacKenzie? I know this is a shock.”